


A Charmed Web

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Manipulation, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mind Manipulation, lotus-eater machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 09:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: A beautiful lie is still a lie. And it’s the Archivist’s job to see.





	A Charmed Web

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winternacht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winternacht/gifts).



> Please see the end if you want clarification on the Major Character Death warning, and also for other notes!

Today, like every day, Martin brought Jon his favorite tea.

The mug was Jon’s favorite, though he’d never admit it, a patternless dark green with a small chip on the lip. Martin only knew because he’d watched Jon pick out from all the others, again and again, even when there were better, newer mugs he could take. The tea was Irish breakfast, dark and strong. Too bitter for Martin, but it made sense for Jon. He had so much work to do, after all. 

Jon didn’t look up when he walked into the room, not even when he almost tripped over a book that was laying on the floor. The gold lettering on the spine shone bright and clear. _The Odyssey._

“Doing a bit of light reading, Jon?” he said, setting the book on the desk, and the tea carefully on a coaster. Jon hated the rings it left, and had scolded Martin for it more than once. 

“Hmm?” Jon looked up, locked his eyes on the tea, and grabbed it, gulping deeply despite the heat. “Oh, that. I’ve no idea how it got here, but I’ll take it back to the library later.”

“I can take it for you, if you want. I know you have a lot to do, and it’s really no bother.” 

Martin shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, then back, swinging his arms slightly. When Jon glared at him briefly, and huffed a sigh, Martin remembered he hated the fidgeting. His hands clenched into fists, and he forced himself still. 

“Don’t worry about it, Martin. I have to go up there anyway. There’s some research I need to do.” He turned a page on the statement he was reading, the handwriting too blurred for Martin to make it out. “Though if you did want to help me with something else…”

“Yes, anything you need.” He almost winced at how plaintive he sounded. Pathetic, but no. It was fine. They were doing important work. 

“Could you record this statement for me? I’m afraid the last one took everything I had left.” He held out the pages he’d been reading, and Martin took them eagerly.

“I’d be happy to. I mean, not exactly happy, it’s a statement so it won’t be happy, but you know what I mean.” He flushed. Babbling again, he really needed to stop. 

“I do, Martin.” Jon even smiled at him. Martin’s heart fluttered. “And you always do such an exceptional job. Just let me know when you’re finished.”

“Righto. I’ll make sure to keep you informed. And bring you the tape.” His fingers tightened, crinkling the statement. At Jon’s slight frown, he hastily smoothed the pages out again.

“Actually, Elias wants the tape. Please bring it to him instead.”

Trying to stamp down the slight pang of disappointment, Martin nodded. “I’ll do that. And then should I come see you?”

Jon’s face seemed to waver, distort. Martin shook his head, and his expression cleared, a slight smile on his lips. 

“Yes, Martin. I’d like that.”

Martin’s heart hammered in his chest, and he didn’t even care. It was high praise coming from Jon. Not that Jon was cruel, far from it. But he only said things like that when he really meant it, when someone really, properly earned it. That was one of the things Martin loved about Jon. His honesty. When he tried to lie, it was always terrible.

As Martin headed back to his desk, statement in hand, he felt lighter. He sat down, and started the tape recorder he always kept there now. 

“Statement of Otis Omiros, regarding a series of wonderful dreams.”

***

Martin couldn’t see.

The corridor to Elias’s office stretched before him, shadowed and seemingly endless, though Martin knew it wasn’t far to Elias’s office. Still, it would be slow going in the dark. He’d have to have his wits about him. And maybe find out why the lights were out. Sliding his hand across the wall, he found hard plastic, and pressed. Light flooded the corridor, and yet Martin still hesitated.

It wasn’t that he thought Elias would do anything. Mostly Elias had left them alone lately, as if realizing that he’d overreached, that he needed them to stop this. So he wasn’t afraid. Not at all. And if all Elias wanted was the tape, that wasn’t such a big deal. He’d just drop it off, then hurry back to Jon. 

Decision made, he strode down the hall, pushing Elias’s door open with confidence he didn’t feel. When he was confronted with an empty office, he immediately recognized his mistake. He should have knocked, and what would Elias do now? What if he took it out on Jon? But maybe if he left, then Elias would never know. He probably wasn’t even paying attention.

But as Martin turned back to the door, he heard a thump, and froze. His hand hovered on the knob as he listened, some part of him expecting the sticky squirm of worms, and that horrible, hacking not cough. But there was just silence. He sighed, and then just as he was about to leave—thump.

He’d probably regret this. 

As he made his way further into Elias’s office, he heard a groan. It sounded like Elias, but that couldn’t be right. Elias wouldn’t be in pain, wouldn’t be gasping like breathing was hard, as Martin pushed open the door at the back. The room was as dark as the corridor had been, the light from the office casting a faint line down the middle. Martin fumbled for the light, fingers sliding over peeling wallpaper until he found the switch. 

His eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. Elias, leaning heavily against a table, a hand clutching his side. And beneath it, a growing stain Martin knew with a sick certainty was blood. He rushed forward, pressing his hand over Elias’s, before pulling back just as quickly. It was strange, how human his hand had felt. Almost wrong in the way it was right.

“Martin.” Elias coughed, a thick wet sound, but nothing like Jane Prentiss. It was the sound of a human in pain, maybe dying. For a moment, Martin felt like he should go. Tell—someone about it. Right, he should call 999, but could they do anything? Was Elias human enough for that?

“I’m sorry, Jon said to bring you the tape, and then I heard a noise, so I came back here. I can go, though. I should go, or do you need me to call you an ambulance?”

“Thank you, Martin. But that won’t be necessary.” He hissed through his teeth, and the wet patch on his jacket seemed to grow. “I could, however, use your assistance in other ways.”

“I’m not doing anything bad.” His hand shot to his mouth the second he said it, like he could stop the words escaping. Though really, what did he care what Elias thought? He was evil, they both knew it. Better that they stop pretending. He thought he’d stopped pretending. “I mean, more bad than you’re already making us do.”

Elias just gave him a tight smile, and nodded to a small table next to him, where a few neatly stapled pages sat. “All I want is for you to read me a statement.”

A statement? He’d already done the one, but it hadn’t taken as much out of him as he’d expected. No reason he couldn’t do another, not if it helped. 

Martin shook his head. Something, there was something… “Why would I want to?” 

“You know it’s essential to this fight. Everything you do helps.” 

Right. They were saving the world, and Jon would want him to, wouldn’t he? So maybe he should help Elias. They still needed Elias. Jon had said so. His hands shook as he picked up the papers. Why? Too much caffeine, maybe. Or he needed more sleep.

“If you could also—” Elias groaned, sagging against the wall. “Physical contact would aid the process.” He held out his unbloodied hand. 

Touching Elias, it seemed wrong. Like he was giving in. But no, it was just doing what was necessary. And even if Elias was a monster, Martin didn’t want him to die. Not really. So it was for the best. He look Elias’s hand in his, and knelt next to him, trying not to think about how he could feel the hair on the back of his hand, the roughness of his palm, the faint sweat from the combined heat of their bodies. It was too normal. Too human. 

Elias took a shuddering breath. Martin cleared his throat.

“Statement of Maryann Blake, regarding a job she was compelled to complete.”

***

In his dreams, Jon didn’t come back. But it didn’t matter. They were only dreams, after all.

***

Today, like every day, Martin brought Jon tea.

The mug was missing, the one Jon liked. Or no, he’d hated that mug, hadn’t he? Dropped it in the bin, said the chip cut his lips. So it was a good thing Martin had picked a different one, a shining black he could see his reflection in. It was distinguished. Austere. Jon would like this one. 

When he walked in the room, Jon looked up immediately. In his hands Martin saw a book, the silver lettering faded with use and age, and as Jon tilted it towards the light, Martin could just make out the title. _Ulysses_. 

“Bit different reading than your usual, isn’t it?” Martin said, nodding at the book as he set the tea on a napkin. Jon always managed to lose the coaster, and Martin had long since given up finding it.

“Quite.” Jon reached for the tea, and took a delicate sip, careful of the heat. “But it can’t be all eldritch horror all the time, can it?” He smiled, and Martin responded, like a flower turning towards the dying rays of the sun. 

“No, it can’t.” He wove his fingers together to stop himself from fidgeting. Better not to annoy Jon, when he was in such a good mood. “Is there anything you need?”

“Actually, Martin, there is. Elias didn’t turn up today. It’s very unlike him.”

“Oh.” Right. He remembered now. Elias had been hurt, but the statement, that had made him better. He was better. “Do we…care?” 

Jon laughed. A bit dark, a bit sad, but Martin was glad for it. He never heard Jon laugh. Never heard him laugh anymore. 

“I wish I could say we didn’t. But we need him, Martin. You know that.”

Did he? He must. Elias was essential to this fight. Everything he did helped. 

“What do you want me to do?” He hesitated to suggest it, but if Jon needed it, he would. “Do you need me to bring him a statement?”

Jon’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head, then stood. For a moment, Martin thought he’d approach, but instead he turned away, drawing a finger down some incomprehensible paper tacked to the cork board on the wall. One word he lingered on, and the light seemed to shift. He knew that word, the longing it implied. But no, it was Greek. Like Jon always said, Martin’s Greek was terrible. 

“Nothing of the sort,” Jon said with a sigh, folding back into his chair. “Just make sure some horrible monster hasn’t killed him.” 

“We might have to send it a fruit basket if it did,” Martin said with a small laugh, one that died in his throat when Jon shook his head and frowned.

“I know Elias has done some terrible things. But remember, Martin.”

“We need him for this fight.” His lips shaped the words, muscles twitching into unfamiliar shapes. Need him? They did. Jon said it. They must. “Right. I’ll just be going then?” He made a vague gesture at the door, and this time, Jon did smile.

“Everything you do helps.”

***

Martin squinted into the gloom. 

When he’d knocked on the door to Elias’s flat, there’d been no sound but the hollow echo of his first against the wood. Leaving probably would’ve been the sensible thing to do. After all, he’d checked. But Jon had been so insistent, and after Elias’s accident…

The memories wormed their way into his mind. Elias bleeding on the floor, his grip desperate and far too human. It wouldn’t hurt to check, would it? So he’d tried the handle, and the door had swung open. 

As he took a step onto the dark wooden floor, he held his breath, waiting for the creak that never came. The whole place was eerily silent. He should call out for Elias, and if he didn’t answer, then Martin would look. Just to make sure nothing terrible had happened. Nothing else terrible. 

But the words stopped in his throat when he heard the low murmuring of a voice that had to be Elias. Another step inside, and he shut the door behind him. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see weak light bleeding out of one of the rooms. All the other doors were shut, so that must be it. 

He drew closer, and the murmuring solidified into words, their cadence achingly familiar.

“Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: ‘tis hard to settle order once again.” 

“That’s Tennyson.” 

Elias turned from where he was looking out the window, a book clutched in his hands, and he smiled at Martin. Still oddly pale, almost diminished. Not that he was the largest man, tall but not as tall as Martin. But Elias had always had a presence, and here, in the weak winter light, it seemed muted. Contained. 

“Indeed. ‘The Lotos-eaters.’ You have a fondness for poetry, don’t you?” His gaze drifted back to the book he held as he flipped to a different page. 

“I—yeah, I do.” He frowned. “But you know that.” 

“Allow me certain niceties, Martin. And also the understanding that the ability to see is not the ability to know.” 

Before Martin could ask what he meant, Elias began to read again. 

“A charmed web she weaves away. A curse is on her, if she stay, her weaving, either night or day…” He looked expectantly at Martin.

“The Lady of Shallott. I’ve always loved that one.” 

“I thought you might.” Elias drew his finger down the page, and Martin was reminded of Jon, and how his finger had lingered on a word. Lotophagi. “Or when the moon was overhead, came two loves lately wed—”

“I am half sick of shadows,” said Martin. The next line, except no, there was more.

“Then let me help you see.”

Elias put down the book and walked over to Martin with measured steps. The window brightened behind him. Martin tried to look away, but Elias’s hand caught his chin, held him there. His eyes were dark, and Martin couldn’t look away.

“I’m afraid,” Martin said.

Elias only smiled. 

***

In his dreams, the pipes screamed. His hands scrambled against sticky threads like steel, and he could do nothing to break free. Jon will be here, Jon is here, Martin never was. A voice whispered in his ear, “You are not strong enough to see.” Fingers curled into a fist, and the threads dropped away. 

***

Today, Martin brought Jon tea.

The mug was plain and white, but Jon wouldn’t care. It only mattered that Martin bring it, that it was hot and fresh. That it gave him a chance to check on Jon, to check Jon, to check. 

Jon was already standing when he walked into the room, his back to the door, hand hanging down at his side. Dangling from his fingers was a book, the title too faded to read. The book slipped from his hand, the pages catching the last rays of light as they filtered in through the high window. The edge of the spine collided with the floor, sliding on papers that had fallen there. It tilted, then teetered back, gravity bearing it down with unerring finality. 

As Martin knelt to pick up the book, Jon turned to face him, and said nothing. When he got to his feet, and held it out to Jon, he only shook his head. 

“Keep it, Martin.” He sighed, and stared past Martin. 

So Martin held out the tea instead, and at last Jon took it. In his hands, it seemed to weigh nothing, the liquid as still as if it hadn’t moved at all. He inhaled deeply, and the hint of a smile crossed his lips.

“Thank you, Martin. But I need to go now. And I need you to see.”

“See? I don’t understand.” Lotophagi. No. He didn’t understand.

Jon finished the tea, and set the cup aside. For a moment, Martin thought Jon was already gone, his heart stopping to leave only an echoing emptiness in his chest. But no, Jon was coming towards Martin. He reached out, and ran a hand through Martin’s sleeve. Over his sleeve. 

Martin laughed nervously. 

“I think I might need to go too, my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

“Or maybe they finally aren’t.” Jon’s voice echoed as he walked past. At the door, he stopped.

“Remember, Martin. We need you for the ritual. Everything you do helps.”

No, no, that was wrong. Or was it right? The ritual, he knew that, he remembered, he’d forgotten. Jon would know, Jon could explain—

“Please see Elias before you leave,” Jon said.

And then the door was empty.

Martin opened the book. Inside, the pages were blank. He pressed his hand against them, willing inked answers to well forth. But the words were gone, the story was over. 

Elias would know. Elias could explain. 

***

Martin regarded the open door, and saw Elias.

He stood with his back to the door, shoulders straight and hands clasped behind him. The book was still in his hand, and he almost asked, but the question subsided as Elias faced him. 

Before Martin could speak, Elias gripped his shoulder with one hand, and with the other, cradled the back of his neck. It should be strange, Elias touching him like this. Why should it be strange? He tried to shake his head, but Elias held him still, fingers digging into his hair. 

“You’ve truly done exceptional work, Martin,” Elias said, rubbing circles into his skin. “You’re almost there. And with Jon gone, we need you more than ever.” He leaned in, breath ghosting along Martin’s cheek, twisting its way into Martin’s ear. “I need you.”

“For the ritual,” Martin said. No, something was wrong, he knew something was wrong. “But Jon—”

The grip on his shoulder slackened, Elias trailing his hand down Martin’s side, sliding an arm around his waist, slipping fingers under his shirt. Warmth spread throughout his body, and his eyes drooped, his eyes widened. 

“He appreciates it as well. He’d be proud of you.” 

Something wrong, there was something wrong—

“But you’ve dreamt long enough.” Lips pressed against his forehead, to his eyebrow, lower still. 

This time, when Martin tried to shake his head, Elias let him. Relaxed his grip. Left Martin, bereft and lost and afraid, and before him the abyss. Above—

“One more day,” Elias said. “Think of it as a bonus for all your hard work. I’ll send you the necessary forms.” 

Papers pressed into Martin’s hand. Where had they come from? The words swam before him. Solidified. A statement.

“Read to me, Martin.”

He could still turn away.

“Statement of the Archivist, on Seeing.”

***

In his dreams, Martin saw a great orb, entirely covered in web. An eye, he knew, though he couldn’t see. Buried and tangled and hidden. But still waiting, still listening, still watching. Always watching. His fingers trembled as they dug into the web. His shoulder shook as the cold seeped through, and the writhing, slithering echoes closed in around him. In the distance, the pipes still screamed.

He waited. 

***

Martin brought tea.

The desk was empty, so he sat down. Took a sip. Just Twinings English Breakfast, nothing fancy, but he’d always liked it. And what mattered was that it was warm, and it was here. Like Martin was here. 

On the desk, the book lay open, and Martin could read the words. Would read the words, he knew. But not yet. He had to wait for someone. No, not someone. Something. 

Pushing the book aside revealed a paper, creased and worn, colored a sickly yellow. On it there were words. These, he wasn’t supposed to read. But he did anyway, then folded the paper, and tucked it into his pocket. 

Later, he would remember. He would pull out the paper, and he would understand. But now? 

He drank the tea. 

***

Martin saw Elias framed in the window, watching over him.

The street was empty because there was nothing to see. The steps were empty because there was no one here. When Martin opened the door, Elias was there, still at the window. His back was no longer to Martin, and his hands were empty.

“The web was woven curiously,” Elias said.

“The charm is broken utterly,” Martin replied. He blinked, and tasted salt on his lips. Where had that come from? His fingers shook as he ran them over damp cheeks. “What do I do now?”

He reached into his pocket. He read the folded paper. 

Arms pulled him close, human warmth and unnatural chill. And terror, always terror. But underneath it all…belonging. Meaning. Wrong, so wrong, and yet when Elias tipped up his chin, and ran a thumb over his bottom lip, Martin didn’t pull away. When Elias leaned close, and pressed their mouths together, Martin opened. The arms were too tight, not right. But they were real.

And in dreams, he could still see. 

***

In his dreams, his hand was still upon the eye, and now he yanks the web away. Furious, and terrified, and still he had to know. The web was torn, the charm was broken, and before him was the Eye. The music played, the dancers danced, a man cried out as it was all engulfed in flame. No way to forget, no way to shut his eyes. But he'd always been happier, watching. 

“Draw near, and fear,” he said. The remaining words died on his tongue. 

Martin woke.

**Author's Note:**

> Major Character Death warning is for Jon's death before the beginning of the fic.
> 
> The title, as well as a number of the poetry quotes (both explicitly referenced as such and not), are taken from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Lady of Shallot." I was originally looking at his poem "The Lotos-eaters," but found that in many ways, "The Lady of Shallot" fit better, and with Martin's known love of poetry, it also seemed to fit him. And since it's probably less clear than the others, I'll add that the last line he says is from the end of the poem:
> 
> 'The web was woven curiously,  
> The charm is broken utterly,  
> Draw near and fear not,—this is I,  
> The Lady of Shalott.'


End file.
